Chapter 13
Cain
I’m parked outside Sierra’s house, the engine humming quietly as I glance at the front door for what feels like the tenth time, wondering where the hell she is. She was supposed to meet me at the pub, but apparently ghosting me seemed like a better idea.
I tap her name again and bring the phone to my ear, letting it ring while my eyes move over the empty driveway, the trimmed hedges, and the polished front windows that still show no sign of movement inside. Nothing.
I end the call and rest the phone on my thigh, calm enough on the outside, though something darker has started to stir underneath.
I just hope she didn’t start spiraling too hard.
My thumb brushes absently over the fresh mark across my wrist, and I hiss under my breath when it stings.
Before I can think much more about it, the electric gates begin to slide open.
Headlights cut across the driveway as Sierra’s car pulls in slower than usual, almost cautious, which doesn’t suit her at all.
I tap the horn once to catch her attention, then step out of my car and start toward her as she parks.
Her door opens a second later, and she steps out.
Even like this, she still looks hot as fuck.
Her dress fits her perfectly, hugging every curve like it was chosen for the sole purpose of being noticed, and the usual Prada heels are somehow still on her feet, as if sheer arrogance kept them intact. But the rest of her ruins the picture. She’s filthy from head to toe.
And I hate how much I like the sight of it.
Mud streaks her legs and stains the fabric clinging to her hip. Thin scratches trace over her skin, and her hair hangs in tangled waves, half undone, with bits of dried dirt caught between the strands.
I push the gate shut behind me and walk directly to her, the scent of sweat, perfume, and damp earth still clinging stubbornly to her skin. Reaching up, I take a loose strand of hair between my fingers, brushing some dried dirt from it before letting it slip away.
“What happened?” I ask, clearly entertained. “You decided digging a grave was more important than meeting me?”
She rolls her eyes like I’m the one being unreasonable, then brushes a ruined piece of hair away from her face with all the dignity someone covered in mud can manage.
“I had a car accident,” she replies coolly.
I glance past her toward the car. Other than a few streaks of dirt along the bumper and one side panel, it looks perfectly fine.
“With this car?” I ask mildly. “Are you sure?”
She shoots me a sharper look, then pauses just long enough to rearrange the lie.
“Something jumped out in front of the car on my way to meet you.” she says after a brief pause, like she’s choosing each word carefully. “I swerved, ended up in a ditch, and luckily someone happened to pass by and pulled me out.”
Liar, liar, sweet little fraud,
Pray for mercy, moan for God!
I nod slowly, as if I’m actually considering it.
Right… Funny how she’d rather lie than tell me what really happened.
My eyes drift over the scratches on her legs before lifting back to her face.
“Then explain this part to me,” I drawl, motioning lazily toward the state of her. “Did the ditch fight back?” She gives me a look so cold it almost makes me smile. “And the mud everywhere?” I continue, letting my gaze slide over the dirt smeared along her skin. “What happened there?”
Her jaw tightens, and it takes all my self-control not to laugh in her face.
“Don’t tell me,” I add, voice thoughtful. “Before someone rescued you, you tried lifting the car out yourself.” I pause, letting my eyes travel over her once, before dropping to the heels still somehow on her feet.
“Prada and manual labor,” I say, a faint smile tugging at my mouth. “Now that’s a combination I’d pay to see.”
For the first time since she got out of the car, she laughs. It’s softer than usual, roughened slightly around the edges, like tonight scraped something raw out of her, but it still sounds like Sierra—sharp, confident, determined not to let anything sit on top of her for too long.
She folds her arms loosely, lifting one brow at me.
“Are you done being funny?” she asks. “Or do you want to come inside and keep embarrassing yourself in private?”
My mouth almost curves again.
There she is.
I take a slow step closer, my eyes dragging over her once more before I meet her eyes.
“Inside?” I repeat, as if I’m considering it. “You look like you barely survived the outdoors, and you’re already inviting me in.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s less bite behind it than usual; the exhaustion underneath is finally starting to show.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Cain,” she says, brushing dirt from the side of her dress. “I need a drink and a shower. You just happen to be standing here.”
“Lucky me.” I flick my hand toward the front door. “Lead the way.”
She smiles, then heads for the door, unlocking it before stepping inside and leaving it wide open for me.
Cute.
Inviting trouble in seems to be a habit of hers.